Traverse The Fog

Contrary to Cyrus' expectations, Blake had not charged straight into battle with the strigoi. For hours on end, he watched Blake and Scáth marching along the riverside, rarely speaking save for a few comments about the environment. And it was dull. Why didn't they time-skip this part?

Before Cyrus could complain, Blake finally halted and surveyed his surroundings.

"Perfect," He muttered, glancing at Scáth encircling above him. "Stay close."

"Perfect?" Cyrus repeated, confused. "This place looks no different than any other spot on the river!"

Unaware of his ghostly companion's complaints, Blake flicked his hand. Cyrus felt mana channel from 'his' wrist and flow into the river, compelling watery tendrils to rise. Quickly, they flowed towards him, coiling together and freezing into a familiar shape—a shovel. Blake caught it without so much as a glance before plunging it into the mud and digging small holes. Again and again, he dug. Soon, dozens of narrow but deep holes lined a small area along the riverbank.

"Now for the best part." Blake turned toward the river. Without another word, he tossed the frozen shovel back into the river. Slowly, he reached towards it, and with a snap pull back, a small tide broke from the flowing river into the bank, filling these pits with water.

"A trap?" Cyrus muttered. "Aquamancy is pretty convenient."

And Blake would have agreed. Slowly, he brandished his silvery daggers, and after Cyrus felt another rush of energy onto his hands, they emitted three unique gray sigil etchings across their short blades. Every three seconds, they would pulse, encasing the entire dagger in a shimmering, gray light.

"Hurmph. Show off," Cyrus muttered, watching Blake deftly roll the daggers between his fingers like coins before finishing them off with a graceful flourish and strike.

And the Wayfarer wasn't finished with his preparations. Reaching into his coat's pocket, Blake retrieved a pouch from his inner coat's pocket and began covering his skin and clothes with a brown, earthy-smelling powder as he strode to the forest line. Then, he grabbed fallen tree branches and dirt and repeated his earlier actions. Was he masking his scent? But that came with more questions. What, were the strigoi more akin to beasts than wraiths? For that matter, did wraiths require sustenance?

"Got something, Buddy?" Blake asked, looking upwards toward his companion. The two watched Scáth happily flitter around them, head gazing east. "Then, come on, little guy." Blake brandished his revolver from his arm's strap. "It's time."

Scáth chirped again and flapped its wings, soaring into the air and delving deep past the towering redwood. Trailing behind was Blake, who would occasionally knick passing trees with a small arrow pointing back to the river.

On they went. And to Cyrus' surprise, time seemed to fast-forward, with the trees shifting about while shadows merged into masses of pure darkness. That was until he felt a rush of mana enter his eyes, followed by his vision returning with a grayish hue.

"Magical night vision?" Cyrus muttered, surprised. "How convenient."

He watched Blake seamlessly blend into the darkness and mist around them, silently, faithfully following his feathered companion. Before long, the three discovered a small grove surrounded by dense brush with a single entrance.

Cyrus sucked in a breath. For he heard the grotesque sounds of tearing flesh and sickening slurping emanating from within. Meanwhile, Blake remained unafraid. Without hesitation, Blake skulked closer to the entrance; his night vision grew brighter, and from their vantage point, the two witnessed a creature that stilled Cyrus' heart.

And there it was. What stood before them, nearly one and a half meters tall, was a gangly gray humanoid face down, pressing its face onto a fallen elk. It dug its gnarled claws into its food's flesh, using it as an anchor as it pulled its emancipated head backward, and red, bloody flesh readily tore off, ripped by long, syringe-like teeth, before it swallowed it whole. Those red, pupilless eyes rolled backward as the creature lapped the pooling blood with its long, blackened tongue, shivering in ecstasy.

The strigoi in its grotesque glory.

Cyrus frowned at the sight. It was not as if he had no experience with horrid creatures; The Weeper still stalked his dreams and thoughts. But this? What was once a myth now stood before him, not a movie or story, but a memory, an experience.

In the back of his mind, a voice reminded him. "This is real. And you will see worse in the future. Much worse."

A gloom shaded over Cyrus' enthusiasm for becoming a Wayfarer. Meanwhile, Blake remained true. With great care, he stopped at the entrance and slowly brandished his revolver, aiming it at the malformed creature that was too busy savoring its meal to notice anything awry.

Time slowed as Blake readied his aim. And the stage was set.

Bang

The gun sounded off. Light pierced through the trees and fog straight into the strigoi's forehead with enough force to knock it flat on its back. And Blake wasted no time. A jet of mana rushed into his legs, and he bolted with incredible speed before the creature, tossing the powder bag straight in the strigoi's face while simultaneously unloading his entire cylinder onto its joints.

Before Cyrus could react, the Wayfarer escaped the grove, drawing a considerable distance between the two. A blood-curdling roar resounded from behind, but Blake remained focused and opened his revolver, dropping his spent ammunition and reloading it with remarkable speed.

There was another ear-piercing howl. Under their shared gray vision, a large mass of black smog exploded from within the grove, encompassing the surrounding brush and chunks of the sequoias. Then came the liquefaction. Shocked and silent, Cyrus watched a black wound appear on the majestic trees, spreading outwards like veins as bark and timber melted before his very eyes.

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But Blake cared not. He trained his gaze on the glowing red eyes that lurked within the miasma and aimed his revolver. At the same time, Blake retrieved a flask and dunked its contents. Mana channeled, and he willed the deluge of water onto his arms and legs with serpentine grace.

Now, he was ready.

At that moment, the strigoi bellowed. With monstrous speed, it broke through the smog with arms and claws wide open, uncaring for the rounds being shot into its chest. In a moment, it appeared before the two, swiping down its blackened claws that dripped sizzling ooze, only to meet a dagger-born icy shield, forged in a flash of ice, that stopped it in its tracks.

Blake then parried. The creature was left wide open for his flurry of dagger slashes. And he cut deep. Each laceration revealed the black muscle underneath, yet no blood spilled from its already rotten wounds.

Undeterred, the strigoi slammed down with all its strength. Yet Blake leaped back, allowing the shield to liquefy and coil back into his arms before they transformed into slushy tendrils on his back.

Thus, the two began to dance in death. Every oozing claw swipe met a frozen tendril that was barely strong enough to stop it. Every dagger slice met leather skin that easily tore apart.

Meanwhile, Cyrus was stunned. What an ingenious way to fight.

The dance persisted without pause. Yet, no matter how many deep gashes crisscrossed the monster's body, they only served to enrage it. It then bellowed wide, mouth opened with black froth spilling from its mouth for another miasma attack—only for a slushy tendril to force its way inside before solidifying into ice.

Mouth frozen shut, it thrashed in a frenzy. Meanwhile, Blake separated the tendril from the frozen chunk before anchoring his watery tendrils to the ground and solidifying them. Then, after a rush of mana into his legs, he kicked hard in its chest.

The monstrosity stumbled backward, claws scraping at its frozen mouth. And Blake had put distance between the two, launching ice spikes that perforated through its undying flesh. But the strigoi cared not. It bit down hard on the ice, miasma escaping between the growing fractures.

"Time to go." Blake whistled a command and bolted towards the river with Scáth in tow, up above. Behind him, a large cloud of poisonous haze covered the area, followed by the strigoi charging in pursuit. And Cyrus could hear its vile screeches from behind, drawing closer and closer.

It was all too familiar.

Blake, too, recognized the situation. With a thought, his tendrils coiled downwards to his calves before detouring straight toward one of the massive sequoias.

And above the scene, Scáth observed closely. And just seconds before the strigoi had its wretched claws on Blake, the canary chirped, prompting the Wayfarer to place water-laced soles on the trunk, one after another, rising higher and higher.

What a move. The strigoi missed, striking deep at the bark instead.

Barely evading the attack, Blake arched his back, gracefully flipping over the aberration while throwing a glob of water over the stuck claws, instantly freezing over. And he wasted no time. Blake began a flurry of lacerations with his daggers while water twisted into tendrils again with knife-sharp ends. Each slash carved deep wounds, revealing the blackened muscles beneath the creature's skin.

Yet it did nothing.

Undeterred, the monster tore from the trunk, pivoting around to unleash a torrent of black smog behind itself. Yet already anticipating the danger, Blake had moved to the side, distancing himself before continuing his dash towards the river.

The strigoi trailed closely behind. From there, the battle fell into a cycle, with the strigoi attacking and belching smoke while Blake maneuvered and dodged, all the while inflicting more gashes before breaking for the river again.

As Cyrus watched this, he could feel nothing but awe and respect for the Wayfarer. How could Blake remain so calm in the face of death?

The battle went on. Soon, the sound of rushing waters reached their ears, and with a surge of mana flowing through his legs, Blake readied himself. After encasing its head in thin ice, he disengaged from his enemy and raced towards the forest line.

There. Steady and confident, Blake dashed through the mud toward the river's edge. There he waited, mana surging into his arms and legs. A moment later, screeches sounded before him, followed by the strigoi barreling through the treeline, mouth armed with needle-like teeth.

Now was the time to strike. Breathing deeply, Blake then stomped onto the ground, mana saturating the puddles before him, where they began to bubble and foam.

The strigoi charged through the mud; its only purpose was to kill. It lunged toward him, bile spilling from its mouth and claws open.

Now. In that instant, Blake reached forward with open palms, clenching them into tight fists. Mana flared, and water whips shot up from the puddles, lashing onto the creature and coiling, imprisoning the aberration with frozen chains. Then he went for the attack.

Mana surging, Blake bolted around the entrapped beast whose strength fractured the frosty chains. With a quick hand flourish, water coiled from the closest puddle, shaping and freezing into an oversized, frosty hammer.

Arms shimmering viridian, Blake swung with enough force to crush bone, smashing onto its back—A home run. It was sent flying toward the river, hoar fractals and broken ice in its wake. But its flight only lasted a few seconds as it skipped along the surface like a tossed pebble before crashing with a resounding splash.

However, it wasn't over. Quickly, Blake reached the water's edge and planted his hands deep into the river bed. With his aqua runes activating, the water churned into a whirlpool where the monster submerged.

Ten seconds. Twenty. A water spout shot upwards, followed by the strigoi landing on the shore. However, it appeared bloated with water that escaped its wounds.

Despite its ghastly, bloated, and lacerated state, it still turned to him with no signs of diminished strength, even gurgling a screech. Cyrus would have even been frightened of the sight weren't for the gurgling and water comically spilling from its mouth.

And Blake also remained unperturbed. Confident and stoic, he prepared his daggers with a watery sheen on their blades and tendrils on his back before making a mad dash to the creature.

This wasn't Blake's first fight with a strigoi. And even if it was, it was a Wayfayer's duty to learn of the world's dangers. The strigoi required total destruction lest it would eventually return if its body were left alone.

And everything was for this moment.

His tendrils latched onto its arms, freezing them into place as he lunged his dagger toward its head with all of Blake's might. It dove deep into the strigoi's skull. As soon as the blade pierced the strigoi's head, Cyrus felt mana surge up to the blade itself. And what came was a sight to behold.

The water lining the dagger's blade instantly chilled into ice. And it did not stop there, spreading the effect onto every ounce of water within every crevice and laceration, expanding and freezing.

The ice expanded relentlessly, triggering a violent seizure in the Strigoi. Hoar spikes erupted from its body, growing until the creature burst like a balloon from its torso to its limbs, right before Blake's eyes, shattering into thousands of shards!